


Always Find My Way (Back To You)

by Venrajade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Feral Behavior, Fluff, M/M, Nesting, Power Outage, Shifter Greg, Silver Fox Lestrade, Storms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:21:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1227904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venrajade/pseuds/Venrajade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The entirety of the UK is besieged by Atlantic storms to the point where the Thames' flood begins to reach London. Trapped at their townhouse as the flood-waters rise Mycroft worries about his mate who is somewhere out there, feral and alone in a city of other shifters who are similarly on edge. Greg just wants to go home and stop smelling like every piece of garbage that has ever come down the river.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Storm's a brewin'

            What was even the point of the ridiculously expensive Thames Flood Barrier if it couldn't keep up with a little rain? Mycroft Holmes mused as he watched workers heaving sandbags along the perimeter of his townhouse as water gushed down the roads. Sure, the barrier had prevented a great deal of the flood from accessing the most central and important parts of London, but all of the houses within a 15 mile radius of Mycroft's home were now dealing with an abrupt and soggy and emergency.

            The power had already gone out hours ago as the rain and wind pounded against the city much more violently than usual. Branches and trees felled power lines, leaving most of the northern half of the city in the dark. Mycroft of course had generators, but they only served to power his security systems leaving much of the house lit only by candles and the warm glow of the fireplace which he now sat in front of, a warm mug of hot cocoa in his hands.

            The truth of it was that Mycroft was absolutely bored. Greg had left in the morning help with the police efforts in diverting traffic and shoring up people's houses, and Mycroft had unfortunately completed all of his necessary work the day before in anticipation of weekend alone with his mate before the storm took the DI away. Normally he would have work lined up for him instantly, but with England in a state of emergency (which was not his area of expertise) those he regularly worked with were currently otherwise preoccupied. He could hardly push an intelligence issue when MI6 itself was more concerned with their 'secret' tunnels flooding than organizing a coup in a foreign country. As it was Mycroft was alone, bored, and with nothing to do for perhaps the first time that he could recall since he was a child. Fortunately the shrill chime of his mobile interrupted his thoughts with the promise of something going on.

"Anthea?"  
"Mr. Holmes, I've just been informed something about the storm," came his assistant's calm, professional voice.

"Go on," Mycroft prompted.

"All of the shifters have reverted to natural states."

"All of them?" Mycroft asked, suddenly alert with the news.

"That we can tell, sir. Some of the ones in safer zones are fine, but the vast majority are feral."

"Well, that is a problem for the Department of Hybridity to deal with. If you would please route Gregory's location to my phone that would be much appreciated."

"Already done, sir." She replied quickly, her foresight was just one reason Anthea was being groomed as his successor.

"Thank you, I will call again if I need anything more."

"Good bye, sir."

            With another chime indicating the end of the call Mycroft quickly opened a GPS application made for his exclusive use. On it he could see the blue indicator that represented his lover on the screen. Unfortunately, the weather seemed to have an effect on the tracking technology as well since the last location of the Detective Inspector was already ten minutes old. Noting that Lestrade's last location was close to Baker street he brought up his contacts and called the one occupant of 221b that was likely to answer.

 

"John here," the former army doctor answered after only two rings.

"Yes hello Dr. Watson. Is Gregory there?" Mycroft greeted with a calmness that betrayed his inner worry. It really was quite miserable outside, and with all the live wires fallen onto the streets and debris being carried by the wind. He worried his feral (because that's what "natural" meant to a shifter, political correctness be damned) mate would accidently hurt himself without all of his facilities in check.

"Ah! Mycroft, hey, no. Sherlock tried to get him back here thinking pack scent might've calmed him down but he buggered off pretty quick as soon as he knew where he was." John explained, really not making Mycroft feel any better.

"And Sherlock is in.. control?" It was unusual to have two brothers with the same genetic makeup vary in their shifter genetics. Sherlock was always one to be the exception, however, and despite their family not having shifting capabilities on either side in at least two generation, Sherlock would transform into a black jaguar quite frequently when throwing a tantrum.

            It used to be that every human was a shifter, but around 1000 AD it became fashionable amongst the gentry to breed with those with no or weak shifting capabilities and soon the rest of the population followed suit. The trend never seemed to regress and son modern times only 30% of the population could count themselves as true hybrids any longer.   

            Society ran normally for the most part, and the majority of the population still had enough inherited from their ancestors to be able to tell by scent who was a shifter and who was not in order to respect the more wild parts of their fellow citizen's natures. Mycroft himself had the uncanny ability to tell just what kind a shifter someone was on sight alone, though that was a skill all shifters had naturally.

            "Nah, Baker Street's dry as a bone relatively speaking so Sherlock's only a little antsy. Lestrade was fine too until he watched a newscast that showed a place only a few streets down from you that got a tree through its roof. Spooked him into natural state I'm thinking, wouldn't be surprised if he's halfway home already with the way he was running." There was a crash on the other end of the line and John cursed. "Listen, I've gotta go. Sherlock opened a window and the wind knocked down one of his experiments and I think the table is corroding. Hope you find Greg!"

            Mycroft looked at his phone incredulously. He wasn't used to being hung up on since most people assumed he had the power to put a hit on them if they insulted the British Government (he did).

            Mycroft couldn't help but be worried about the revelations given to him by John. It would be an overreaction to send out anyone to find his mate when the entire city was already overtaxed on resources. There would already be many shifters roaming around and it would be an abuse of power to try and find one but the amount of other shifters about was precisely why Mycroft was tempted to toss out ethics for selfishness. While a feral state just meant that the shifter was almost completely given over to their animal side, it was relatively easy to coax them back to normalcy if given a safe familiar territory, but with so many shifters about Mycroft worried that Greg might get into a fight with another, stronger shifter. As a fox Gregory wasn't the largest shifter about. What if he ran into a bear? Or a wolf? Mycroft knew that the man two doors down was a cougar shifter and Mycroft didn't think he would appreciate Gregory being anywhere near his territory on four legs OR two when his instincts were screaming to defend his land.

            As Mycroft thought through all the dreadful scenarios that were possible, a strong gust of wind hit the house to the extent that the candles flickered in protest. Mycroft sighed and looked out the window that had the best view of the street. He would give it a half an hour, if Gregory was not home by then he'd use all his influence to ensure that his husband came home safe and sound and in his arms once again.


	2. Chapter 2

_Home. Protect. Mate._

            This was the mantra being chanted in Greg Lestrade's mind as he made his way across London, rain and wind pelting into his face causing him to squint and snarl in dissatisfaction. Even with his heightened senses he could hardly tell where he was as the water had wiped out most scents from the area and the wind blew so loudly he could hardly hear anything else but the distant noise of sirens in all directions heading to various emergencies.

            He was cold, clothes soaked and sticking to his body like a second skin. He was feral, yes, but only shifted to a part-fox part-human form. A light coat of salt and pepper fur covered his body everywhere except his face, his tail fluffed out behind him and his black tipped ears swivelling atop his head. He rarely took this form except that Greg needed to be _big_. He'd run into too many others like him, but they hadn't challenged him probably due to his height. His natural form was too vulnerable, plus, he needed long legs to get home faster.

            He wanted to be in his den, where it was warm and dry and his mate resided. He knew in this storm there was a danger of his home being damaged, but it was a strong den and wouldn't so easily fall which is why he had decided to move in with Mycroft rather than the other way around or find a new flat. But still, what if a tree broke through a window? Greg shuddered, he would have to fix it right away, then drag Mycroft into a safe part of the house and build a nest of blankets. His mate had poor blood circulation, and it was Greg's job to keep his mate comfy and cosy.

            Finally the area around him looked familiar. To his left was a pond that nonetheless had once been the local park which meant he was only ten minutes away from home. Feeling the urgency of his closeness the fox began running in the direction of Mycroft, whining when he noted the destruction of his neighbourhood. The streets had turned into shallow rivers, small trees and branches littered the road, denting more than a few houses and automobiles.

            A particularly strong gust hit Greg at just the right angle that in combination with the shin-high waters impeding his movement, he fell to his knees after tripping over an errant sandbag, his face becoming intimately close with the pavement.

            Spitting out a mouth full of truly putrid water and shaking his head to remove some of the wetness, Greg froze as he heard a growl from ahead.

_Neighbour. Cougar. Predator_.

            Sure enough fully shifted was the old man from down the street. Greg immediately felt his hackles rise before noting that the cougar's attention was not on _him_ but rather an unfamiliar wolverine shifter who was growling and spitting back at the cougar.

            Frozen for a moment the fox watched the two dangerous creatures faced off before his flight or fight instinct kicked in. He'd never had any problems with Mr. Jenkins before, but they did exert a certain amount of wariness to each other with regards to where their territory lines met, Greg had no desire to fight the man and so while the two other shifters were preoccupied he fled quickly home. Giving the two other shifters a wide berth, the fox dashed off once more in search of _mate_ and _home._

            Not two minutes later Greg had made it to the threshold of their property noting with satisfaction that sandbags had been piled expertly to protect not only the house but the garden as well. Unfortunately the bags also smelled like _strangers_. Not the thing a possessive shifter wanted to scent so near to his den and his mate, no matter the intention.

            So he peed on it.

            With one task completed Greg sauntered up the steps to the door, as soon as he was in the protection of the awning he began shivering in a sudden acknowledgement of just how cold he really was. Greg looked at the door confused, and then at his paws, which had transformed into a slightly less malleable form than was purely human. The shape, along with the numbness of his hands meant that Greg's animal brain couldn't quite figure out to open the door. It was simply unfair considering the long journey he had managed in record speeds to get back to his home, only to be denied entry by one of its simplest security features.

            Whining, Lestrade pushed against the door, scratching it with his claws as the noises coming from his muzzle became more and more piteous. Not a minute later however the shifter heard sound coming from within as a familiar tread made its way down the stairs at a harried pace.

            A second later the door flung open and revealed his mate.

"Gregory!" Mycroft exclaimed as the sodden fox pushed himself into the human's space, transferring some of the wetness of his detective's outfit to Mycroft's button-down and trousers.

"My!" The fox yipped back. Human words weren't really his forte in this form, but Mycroft always appreciated the attempt at his name and that made Greg happy to please his mate. Shoving his cold nose into the juncture between Mycroft's neck and shoulder Greg inhaled deeply, sorting through the various layers of scent to determine how his mate has gotten on in his absence.

            The most obvious scent was the acrid smell and taste of anxiety that covered Mycroft's most recent feelings. Greg whined in response, shaking his head back and forth while still snuffling into his mate's neck.

            "Oh Gregory, darling. You're an awful mess right now aren't you? I was worried." Greg's ability to comprehend language was somewhat limited at the moment but he could still understand some of it. He could tell that Mycroft was relieved to see him, and also uncomfortable from now being soaked as well. Nonetheless the taller man embraced his husband fully, tension seeping out of his muscles as the fox continued to rub and lick Mycroft's neck and face as a way to re-establish his scent even though their individual scents had mostly merged ages ago. Carding his hands through Gregory's hair the British official stopped only when a strong gust came through the house and abruptly slammed the door shut.

            Spooked out of their reverie, Greg looked wide-eyed and distrustful at the door while Mycroft hushed him and proceeded to turn the lock. Taking Greg's hand in his own, Mycroft proceeded to lead the fox upstairs to their bedroom with minimum fuss from Greg.

"We are now both cold and wet, I think it's about time for a nice hot bath, hmm?"

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea about the mechanics of London or where I think Mycroft and Greg should live. For story purposes it's somewhere that is simultaneously posh and urban but also susceptible to flooding.  
> Next chapter's going to be Greg's POV, dunno if I'll have a chapter after that but we'll see.


End file.
